Ira learns very early that silence is not the absence of sound.
It is a choice adults make when they want you to feel small.
"You don't argue," her mother says, adjusting the bracelet on her wrist as if the conversation is already over. "You listen."
The living room is immaculate in a way that feels rehearsed. Pale walls. White sofas. A glass table so clean it reflects Ira's face back at her, slightly warped.
She can see herself there—too still, too careful, already bracing.
"I was answering," Ira says.
Her voice is calm. Measured. She has learned that tone matters more than truth.
Her mother doesn't raise her voice. She never does.
"What you did was contradict me," she replies. "In front of people."
Ira presses her fingers together behind her back.
She remembers the lunch clearly.
The table full of adults. The polite laughter. The moment she corrected a detail—small, factual, harmless.
The way her mother's smile had tightened just enough for Ira to notice.
No one else did.
"I didn't mean to embarrass you," Ira says.
"That's irrelevant," her mother answers. "Intent doesn't matter. Perception does."
She pauses, studying Ira the way one studies a flaw in an otherwise good design.
"You're too expressive," she continues. "Too questioning. You make situations… difficult."
The word difficult lands harder than shouting ever could.
"You'll be staying somewhere else for a while," her mother says calmly. "It will help you learn restraint."
Ira's chest tightens. "Where?"
"A residential institution," her mother replies. "They specialize in children who need guidance."
Guidance. The word sounds polite.
Safe. Final.
Ira nods, because nodding costs less than arguing.
Alexander is not given even that much explanation.
His father's study smells like leather, polished wood, and something sharp underneath—aftershave, maybe, or impatience.
The furniture is heavy. Permanent.
Everything in the room is meant to remind you who controls it.
Alexander stands in front of the desk, hands at his sides, back straight.
His eyes rest on a framed photograph instead of his father's face. He knows better than to meet his gaze unless invited.
"You've become uncooperative," his father says, eyes still on the papers in front of him.
Alexander says nothing.
"You ignore instructions," his father continues. "You don't respond when addressed. You don't explain yourself."
Silence.
"That might work in this house," his father adds, finally looking up, "but it won't work everywhere."
Alexander's jaw tightens. He does not look away.
"You don't react," his father says. "You don't apologize. You don't defend yourself. Do you enjoy control that much?
Alexander feels the familiar pressure behind his ribs. He says nothing.
"You'll be sent away," his father says. "Until you learn how to behave."
Alexander does not ask where.
Asking questions has never changed outcomes in this house.
The institution is far enough from the city that the noise fades before the gates appear.
Ira watches the scenery shift through the car window. Buildings give way to long stretches of road.
Trees. Fences. Finally, tall iron gates that open slowly, deliberately, as if even arrival is meant to feel controlled.
The driver doesn't speak.
Inside, the building smells like disinfectant and boiled rice.
A woman with tightly pulled hair checks Ira's name off a clipboard.
"Rules will be explained later," she says. "Follow instructions. No personal belongings unless approved."
She doesn't ask Ira how she feels.
Down the hall, another child is crying quietly. An attendant murmurs something sharp, and the crying stops abruptly.
Ira's shoulders stiffen.
Alexander arrives separately.
A man in a dark suit speaks briefly to the staff. His voice is low, authoritative, practiced. Alexander stands beside him, silent, eyes lowered. When the man leaves, he does not look back.
Another staff member leads Alexander down the corridor without saying his name.
Both children are processed quickly.
Shoes checked. Belts removed. Bags searched.
"This way," the woman says, opening a metal door.
"Sit," she tells Ira.
Ira obeys immediately.
The room is small. Two metal beds.
Thin mattresses covered in white sheets that have been washed too many times. A narrow window high on the wall, bars painted white.
The paint is chipped where fingers have scraped against it over the years.
Ira notices that at once.
She sits on the nearest bed, hands folded tightly in her lap, feet dangling above the floor.
She swings her legs once before remembering not to. Movement draws attention.
The boy is brought in a moment later.
He does not sit.
He stands near the wall, shoulders angled inward, eyes lowered.
He places himself carefully, as if he has learned where his body causes the least trouble.
The door closes.
The sound is heavier than it should be.
The room hums softly. Pipes.
Machines. Something breathing behind the walls.
"This is stupid," Ira says finally.
The words are quiet. Not defiant. Just present.
The boy does not react.
"They didn't even tell us what we did," she adds.
Silence.
"I didn't do anything," she says again, softer.
She glances at him then, slow and cautious.
He is watching the door—not the handle, but the space beneath it.
His foot is angled slightly toward it, like he is prepared to move if it opens suddenly.
"You don't talk much," Ira says.
Not an accusation. A note.
He doesn't answer.
"My name's Ira."
That makes him look at her. Just for a second. Long enough to decide something.
He doesn't give his name.
She nods anyway.
Footsteps pass outside. Ira straightens automatically, smoothing her dress. The boy lowers his gaze, shrinking inward.
When the footsteps fade, Ira exhales.
"They won't forget us," the boy says suddenly.
She blinks. "What?"
"They don't forget," he continues. "They wait."
Something tightens in her chest.
Dinner is worse.
The dining hall is loud—metal trays clattering, voices overlapping, chairs scraping.
Someone is crying openly at the far table. No one stops them.
Ira is seated with three other girls.
"Why are you here?" one whispers, eyes sharp with curiosity.
"I talked too much," Ira replies after a pause.
The girl snorts. "Figures."
Across the room, Ira spots the boy. He sits alone, eating methodically, eyes down.
An attendant passes and taps Ira's tray. "Finish."
"I will," Ira says too quickly.
Across the room, the boy looks up—not at the attendant, but at Ira.
Checking.
She nods. Small. I'm fine.
Later, in the corridor, they fall into step without planning it.
"They think you're strange," Ira says.
He shrugs. "They stop watching sooner."
"They watch me more when I talk."
"You talk anyway."
"I have to," she says quietly. "Or I disappear."
They stop at a corner as voices approach.
The boy raises his hand—not touching her. Just a signal.
Stop.
She stops.
They wait. Breathing slows.
When the voices fade, she looks at his hand for a moment before he lowers it.
"That thing you said," she murmurs.
"About waiting."
He nods.
"I think sometimes silence makes it worse," she says. "And sometimes talking does."
"Yes."
"So maybe the rule isn't silence," she continues. "It's timing."
He looks at her fully then.
"Yes."
At the sleeping area, they are directed to opposite sides.
"If I talk too much tomorrow—" she begins.
"I'll listen," he says.
"And if I don't?"
"I'll stay."
That night, lying in her bed, Ira stares at the ceiling.
She doesn't feel erased.
Across the room, the boy lies awake too.
For the first time since arriving, he lets himself sleep without watching the door.
Outside, in the corridor, two staff members pause.
"She's expressive," one murmurs.
"And he's defiant," the other replies.
"They'll either break," the first says
softly, "or cling to each other."
The door remains closed.
Inside, neither child hears it.
Yet.